


Brought by the Breeze

by Springmagpies



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: 1930's ish, F/M, Fluffy, Meet-Cute, Writers, poets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:49:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23719978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Springmagpies/pseuds/Springmagpies
Summary: Jemma often enjoys writing in the park. Watching the ducks and feeling the breeze on her face, Jemma often finds her best ideas sitting on her favorite bench. One particular day, a breeze brings her something better than an idea.
Relationships: Leo Fitz/Jemma Simmons
Comments: 18
Kudos: 39





	Brought by the Breeze

**Author's Note:**

> Hahaha, this was just going to be a 50 word caption for a moodboard. Silly me.

It was a windy day in London. Hyde Park was just getting over its winter cold, the grass slowly turning green and the trees beginning to bud. It wasn’t warm but the chill at least deserves a light jacket, and so that was what Jemma Simmons wore. In her pockets were her white gloves, having taken them off to write. She hated wearing gloves when she was trying to put ink on the pages of her notebook. Besides, her mother would murder her if she caught ink stains. Again. 

Jemma liked coming to the park to write. She had a particular bench that she sat on--if it was available of course--and she would watch the ducks float in the pond as she mulled over her work. It was relaxing, sitting there in the park beneath the gun metal sky that wished to be blue and the breeze that wanted to be warm. 

However, that particular day as Jemma sorted through the pages she had written so far--her second novel entitled  _ The Perthshire Cottage  _ filled up nearly her entire notebook now--a great gust of wind lifted up her air. The pages of her notebook turned like a knocked over rolodex and Jemma silently thanked the heavens that she hadn’t added fresh ink to any of them. What surprised her was that something other than her pages had been caught by the wind. A man’s voice had been as well. A very loud “Blast!”

It didn’t take Jemma long to understand what exactly the voice was upset about. Papers arched in the air and tumbled over the current, falling onto the path. Jemma, who had once had the same thing happen to her on the grounds of Cambridge, quickly set down her notebook and kneeled down. Her mother would have reprimanded her for allowing her skirt to touch the dirt, but this poor man’s papers felt more important.

Jemma didn’t look up as the man kneeled across from her, still intent on gathering the papers, but once they were all in hand she finally lifted her chin. She promptly forgot how words were formed. 

He was handsome; sandy hair covered by his cap, brilliant blue eyes, and cheeks pinked by the cold or perhaps the sprint to catch his papers. 

“Here you are,” Jemma said, handing her collection of papers back to the man. She stood and he followed, his eyes scanning over her face. Jemma wished she wasn’t blushing, but she could feel the heat rising up her throat by its own accord.

“Thank you,” he said. He took the offered stack with thin, graceful fingers. As she watched the papers leave her hands, passing to his, she noticed a smudge of ink on the knuckle of the middle finger on his right hand. She watched the swatch of black as he straightened the papers and placed them back in his portfolio. 

“You’re a writer?” Jemma asked, the compounding evidence of his hand written papers and ink stained fingers. She knew the signs as she held them all as well.

“Uh, yes,” he said nervously. He grabbed on to his earlobe for a moment before thinking better of it and dropping his hand to his pocket. 

Jemma smiled brightly. “Would you like to sit, Mr.--”

“Fitz,” he said, “My name is Fitz.”

“I’m Jemma Simmons.”

A brief, faraway look passed over his face, like he had been sucked physically into a thought. He jumped when another breeze came.

“Sorry, so sorry, where are my manners. Yes, I’d like to sit.”

Jemma smiled, turning on her heel to sit back down on her bench. She picked up her notebook, allowing for Mr. Fitz to come sit as well.

“So, Mr. Fitz, what do you like to write?” 

Mr. Fitz ran his hands over the leather portfolio. “I’m a poet, actually.”

Jemma raised her eyebrow before the came crashing down into a furrow of thought. Fitz. The name sounded familiar. Where had she seen it. Fitz Fitz Fitz Fitz.

“You were published in The Academy!” she suddenly exclaimed, turning on the bench completely and looking at him with wide eyes.

Mr. Fitz blushed a furious crimson, finding the corner of his portfolio with his ink-stained finger. “I was.”

“L. Fitz. You’re L. Fitz.” Jemma chirped a bright laugh. “Your poetry is beautiful!”

If it were possible, Mr. Fitz went even redder. “Thank you.”

Somewhere on the pond, a duck quacked, and a nanny passed with a little boy and a pram. Jemma watched as Mr. Fitz’s eyes took in his surroundings, but his eyes once again seemed somewhere else.

“You said your name was Simmons,” he said, suddenly snapping his head to look at her. She nodded, folding her hands in her lap but keeping her eyes on him. His gaze snapped down to her journal, to the hands in her lap, and a light went on behind his eyes.

“What a world,” he whispered.

She arched a brow, tilting her head slightly to the side.

He startled again. It was cute the way he jumped, his eyes lighting up like sun rays through curtains and his lips parting ever so slightly. It took everything in her not to giggle like a school-girl. 

“May I ask what you mean, Mr. Fitz,” she said, the corners of her lips pulling up but propriety containing the giggle.

“I read your book,” he said. “You are J.A. Simmons, right?”

Warmth flooded into her stomach, rising up through her body until it bloomed once more on her cheeks. “I am, yes. You--You read my book?”

“Of course I read your book. I couldn’t put it down. Finished it in a day.”

“But it’s four hundred pages,” she said, forgetting propriety and finishing the statement with a breathy laugh.

“Well, I’ll admit I skived off a fair few other responsibilities. But it was too brilliant to be put down for something as mundane as sleep.”

Jemma didn’t quite know what to say. Never had she been given such a compliment regarding her work. And it meant something even more coming from such a brilliant poet. 

“Are you working on another?” he asked, nodding at the notebook in her lap. 

Jemma clutched the book tightly but smiled. “Yes. But I am afraid it is classified.”

“I guess I’ll just have to wait for the published print.”

Mr. Fitz grinned and Jemma thought she could get lost in the blue of his eyes if he let her. But, soon the moment ended as he caught the face of his wrist watch. He jumped again and stood, nearly dropping his portfolio off his lap but catching it just in time.

“I’m so sorry Miss Simmons. I have a meeting with my editor.” He extended his free hand. “It was lovely to meet you.”

Jemma took his hand and shook, only remembering she wasn’t wearing her gloves as his calloused hand fit into hers. She had the wildest desire to just hold on, but her better judgement released his fingers reluctantly.

“Lovely to meet you as well, Mr. Fitz.”

He nodded. Well, it was almost a nod. It was more a tiny downward flick of the chin before he turned his back and walked briskly down the path.

Jemma watched him walk for more moments than she should have before sighing and turning back to the ducks in the pond. The small child that had passed was now feeding them tiny bits of bread and smiling happily. 

She went to sit down, only to have loose strands of hair be blown in her face by another chill spring breeze. Clearing them from out of her eyes and off her cheeks, she didn’t notice the voice until it was next to her.

“Mr. Fitz?” she said, holding her notebook to her chest. Her heart beat rhythmically against the book.

“I am so sorry, but I couldn’t just walk away without asking.”

“Asking what?” 

His eyes were so very blue and earnest. “Would you like to get a cup of tea?”

“Yes. I would be delighted.”

Mr. Fitz beamed and Jemma thanked the heavens for the breeze.


End file.
